Le Garoul
by ghostwritten2
Summary: POTO combined with some European werewolf legends: mostly French, some German. Gore warning for Prologue Part II. IN PROGRESS // ON HIATUS
1. Prologue Part I

**Prologue, Part I  
**

_A/N – "Garoul" (or Leu Garoul) is the Old French term for "werewolf", from which the modern term "loup-garou" was derived. French place-names are real, the story of the Beast of Gévaudan is an actual legend(though I've taken a few liberties with it), and Antoine de Beauterne was an historical-type personage. POTO and its characters belong to ALW and GL. The rest of the stuff I just made up._

_Thank you, Polly Moopers, for being a wonderful and patient beta!_

_Lozère, February 1849_

The strange, golden-eyed child had appeared on the grey stone steps of the orphanage at Mende with no warning nor any explanation; the sisters estimated his age at about five years.

Though clean, neatly-dressed, and in good health, he refused to divulge any information about his family or his place of origin. He was well-spoken, but his accent made it unlikely that he was from one of the local villages. He would only say that his name was Erik and that he had lost his parents. Though questioned at length by the sisters and by the Director of the orphanage, Monsieur Guillaume, he would give neither a surname nor an explanation of how he came to be there.

He was a baffling mystery. It was finally decided to accept him as a charity case; since he had nowhere else to go, was able-bodied, and willing to work for his keep, it was no hardship. There were beds to spare. Besides, as Sister Marie-Thérèse pointed out, they could hardly turn him away in the cold.

"You're much too soft-hearted," Sister Bernadette told her.

"Charity is a Christian virtue," said Sister Marie-Thérèse mildly. "Besides, 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.'"

"Hebrews 13:2 notwithstanding, he's more likely to be a devil than an angel, if you ask me," Sister Bernadette said, tartly. "Who walks abroad more in these times? The forces of good or the forces of evil?"

"One has to hope for the best, Sister."

"Yes, and plan for the worst."

"His looks are certainly angelic, though, aren't they?" Sister Marie-Thérèse asked, ignoring the jibe. "Such regular features; that smooth skin, those jet-black curls! I've never seen such eyes – that pale golden-brown, the color of honey! And his hands – he could be a surgeon or a musician with fingers like those."

"They say the devil was a handsome man," Sister Bernadette commented.

"Really, Sister, you seem to know entirely too much about the devil," said Sister Marie-Thérèse, nettled at last.

Sister Bernadette professed to be shocked.

After a few months, Erik certainly seemed to have a full helping of both light and darkness in his character. His looks, as Sister Marie-Thérèse had pointed out, were stunning. There was no doubt of his charisma, either – he could have charmed the birds out of the trees, had he wanted to. His singing, too, was heavenly; he possessed a clear, hauntingly beautiful voice that made the choir director weep to think of its inevitable change once the boy reached adolescence.

His temper, however, was mercurial at best, and devilish at worst. He was periodically subject to inexplicable black moods and uncontrollable fits of anger, during which he was liable to destroy things that he himself had carefully made only moments before. He was also curious and willful, traits the sisters tried in vain to curb, always wanting to find things out for himself and asking questions that ought not to be asked.

Sister Marie-Thérèse thought he must have been mistreated. Sister Bernadette thought he had probably been abominably spoilt. M. Guillaume would only furrow his brow and say that the boy was certainly a puzzle.

"He really doesn't seem to care how others see him," M. Guillaume said.

"Is it that he doesn't care or that he doesn't know?" Sister Marie-Thérèse was pleading his case again, as usual. "He is only a child."

"A very curious child," M. Guillaume said.

"They say in the village that his family is well-to-do, but abandoned him because they were unable to deal with him," Sister Bernadette put in.

"I trust we all know better than to listen to village gossip," said M. Guillame, but he looked thoughtful.

Sister Marie-Thérèse clasped her hands together and said a small prayer for Erik, for the hundredth time that day.

Though his looks and charm had attracted the other children to him at first, one by one they drifted away from him when faced with his temper and indifference. He cared only for a chosen few, most notably Sister Marie-Thérèse and a rather biddable boy called Georges.

As Erik grew, the routine of the orphanage adjusted and grew around him, as nacre grows around an out-of-place object in an oyster's shell. The sharp edges of his differences were blunted by time and familiarity, though his nature was largely unchanged. When he had been in the place for five years, his oddities had become just another aspect of life.

_Lozère, April 1854_

The walk from the orphanage to the village chapel was only about a mile in length, but covered a varied terrain in that short space.

The children were always made to walk in double-file and to hold hands when passing the bit of the Forest of Gévaudanon their route, though they were free to go singly when skirting the marais, which was arguably just as dangerous. No explanation beyond "for safety's sake" had ever been offered for this inconsistency. The nuns seemed afraid of the forest, and reluctant to speak of it.

On the way back from Chapel one Sunday, Erik developed one of his strange and sudden fascinations. He had passed the small shrine with the lighted candle which stood near the edge of the treeline hundreds of times, but it seemed to him that he had never noticed it until now.

"What is that?" he whispered to Georges, his partner.

Georges stared at him. "It's the shrine. It's always been there."

"But why is it there? What is it for?"

Georges only shrugged, clearly disinterested.

Erik scowled, then broke rank and ran to Sister Marie-Thérèse, who gently scolded him and shooed him back into line.

"Donkey," hissed Georges.

Erik kicked him on the ankle.

"Fine. I'll tell you about it tonight after lights out, if it means so much to you!"

Once the boys had all been put to bed, Erik would not allow the subject to drop. Georges, though reluctant, finally relented.

"You have heard of la Bête du Gévaudan?" he asked.

Erik shook his head, his eyes shining in the strong moonlight coming in through the high window.

"Everybody knows this story! Everyone around here, anyway. Well. Not even a hundred years ago, a terrible beast roamed that forest that we were walking by this afternoon. Some who caught sight of it said that it resembled a giant wolf, other that it resembled a half-beast, half-man. A truly terrible and bloodthirsty monster!" Georges began to warm to his tale.

"It killed livestock, people – any living thing which was unattended. Sometimes it consumed what it killed, but at other times it killed for sheer sport.

"Finally, the king sent the two best wolf hunters in all of France to kill the monster. They came with a grand retinue and eight trained bloodhounds, but they too were defeated. At last, the king sent Antoine de Beauterne, his chief huntsman and Grand Louvetier of the realm. The Great Wolf-Hunter." Georges paused.

"He went into the forest bravely, but when he came out, his weapons were missing, and his hair had gone completely white. He said that this was no ordinary wolf, and that a priest was what was needed, not a wolf hunter!"

To his shock, Erik laughed aloud, causing exclamations of sleepy disgust from the other boys.

"You're a fool to laugh," Georges told him. "They say it was the devil's work."

"You don't really believe in such things!" Erik exclaimed. "A werewolf? Those are fairy stories for children."

"Of course I believe it, and you should too. People were finding half-eaten arms and legs in their fields every morning! …Stop laughing, I tell you! When they got the priest, he said the proper prayers, and a terrible, unearthly howling was heard all up and down the Margerides. The priest directed several small shrines to be built, and candles to be kept burning at all times in all of them. The candles power the prayer and keep the beast at bay."

"That's stupid!" Erik protested, still grinning.

"It's not! Look – every time a candle has gone out, there have been attacks during the next full moon. It happened at Malzieu, it happened at Langogne." Georges crossed his arms, irritated.

"Idiocy!"

"And at La Besseyre-Saint-Marie! Ask the sisters if you don't believe me."

"There's a full moon tonight," Erik said. "You mean if I crept down now, went outside, ran to the shrine, and blew out the candle, a great beast would come and eat me up?"

Georges gripped his arm. "You mustn't. Say you won't." In the moonlight, Erik could see that the other boy was sweating. His hand felt clammy.

Erik shook him off. He got out of bed and began to dress himself, quietly. Georges watched him, mouth agape.

"Tell anyone where I've gone," Erik said, "And it will be the worse for you." Something about the look in those eerie golden eyes made Georges disinclined to disobey.

Erik slipped off into the dark, silently. He was expert at not being seen or heard when he wanted to be.

Georges sank back into his bed. Perhaps Erik was right. Perhaps nothing would happen. But he pulled the covers over his head all the same.


	2. Prologue Part II

**Prologue, Part II**

Being outdoors, alone, in the dark, was a new sensation for Erik, one he found he reveled in. The landscape had undergone a magical change after the sun had gone down, and everything looked new and different. He might have been the only human being in the world, with only the singing and rustling of the night-creatures for company.

The marais always seemed dull and ordinary during the day; dark and moonlight transformed it. He skirted its edge, following the well-worn path, and, guided by the tiny flicker of the candle flame, reached the edge of the forest.

He stopped to study the shrine in detail. It looked like a tiny house set on a stake, complete with pointed roof. A hinged glass door kept the flame from guttering; a cache beneath the shrine held a tinderbox and spare candles. Next to the candle was a small silver statue of a wolf with bared fangs. At the back of the shrine was a curious quote in Latin, attributed to St. Thomas Aquinas:

_Omnes angeli, boni et mali, ex virtute naturali habent potestatem transmutandi corpora nostra._

"All angels, good and bad, have the power of transmuting our bodies." Odd, that saints and sorcerers alike seemed to have the ability to change form…

Erik opened the glass door and put one hand on the statue of the tiny silver wolf. It felt warm to his touch. He leaned over and blew the candle out.

"What was that?" Sister Marie-Thérèse sat up in her bed.

The terrible scream sounded again, along with a horrible growling noise she'd never heard before and hoped never to hear again.

As it gradually died away, she ran out into the hall, where she was met with a scene of confusion. Everyone else had apparently been awakened by the same noise.

"What is it? What can it be?" she asked, but no one had an explanation.

Then the cry from one of the sisters, who had gone to check the dormitories: "Erik is missing!"

Sister Marie-Thérèse felt ill. Somehow she had known. When Georges came tearfully to her side, she was certain.

"God save us all," she said.

A party of men from the village brought a limp and blood-soaked form back to the orphanage. The screams had awakened the entire town; the men had followed the ghastly noise and found the missing boy, or what was left of him. The curé, the doctor, and M. Guillaume were with them.

Erik was taken down to a spare room next to the infirmary. Tables, a cot, and a washbasin had been installed there at the doctor's request.

Sister Marie-Thérèse ran down, her appearance panicked and disheveled. "Did you light the candle? Did you light the candle?" she asked insistently.

It took the curé a moment to recognize her; her eyes and her bearing were wild, her face contorted with fear. But he understood her at once.

"Yes," he said, "You must have no worry on that account."

She relaxed only slightly. "How is he? Let me see him!" she demanded.

"I think it would be much better if you did not," the priest said, quietly.

"But M. le curé! Does he live? Is he – will he – "

"He is gravely wounded. I fear it may be fatal. The doctor is with him now."

"Please, let me see him!"

The priest studied her. "Calm yourself. If you wish to pray by his bedside, you may. But it will do him no good to see you in such a state."

"Of course. My apologies." Sister Marie-Thérèse made a visible effort to compose herself and to settle her voice and bearing. "Then – he lives? Is he awake?"

"He is," said the priest, "Though I'd have thought the pain alone of the wounds he has sustained would be enough to kill. And the loss of blood – "

"Please…"

"Yes, yes, all right. Only – prepare yourself, sister."

Sister Marie-Thérèse nodded, and the door swung open.

But nothing, she thought later, could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes. It was all she could do not to scream.

Erik lay, soaked in blood, on one of the laying-out slabs. What seemed a small lake of blood had collected beneath him.

The doctor looked up, motioned to the curé to shut the door, and revealed Erik's face to Sister Marie-Thérèse's sickened, horrified gaze.

One half of his face looked the same as it always had – terribly pale, and spattered with blood, but still clearly recognizable.

But the other – dear God – how could anyone – let alone a child – survive such an injury?

His skull was flayed open, the bone clearly exposed. His scalp hung back in strips, flapping loosely and wetly, like stripes of damp leather – but they were his living flesh. She could see the pattern of pores on bottom of his scalp, and the hair growing out the other side.

His forehead, mouth, and cheek and been savaged, part of the eye socket laid open; the eyelid split and torn. One cheekbone poked sharply through a savage gash, looking absurdly white in that ghastly sea of red.

Vicious slashes extended down his face, over the bridge of his nose, and part of one lip had been peeled back.

Such terrible injuries would have been bad enough – but the most horrible thing of all was that he was awake – awake, and looking at her. One eye was Erik's own, but the other seemed the eye of a monster, rolling obscenely in its bed of raw red meat, and crying tears of blood.

And then he smiled at her, with the half of his mouth that was still his, and that was worse beyond measure. He now truly looked as if he had a dual nature – half angelic boy, half a demon so repulsive that no human being could look upon him and stay sane. That he could smile at her in such a state!

She reminded herself that this was only Erik – just Erik, terribly wounded! But it did no good. She felt bile welling up within her throat.

"Hello, sister," he tried to say, with that nightmare of a mouth. The doctor, busy with sutures, put a hand on him to still him.

She could bear no more. No more of his terrible injuries, and no more of his unnatural indifference to them. Sister Marie-Thérèse turned, and, clawing frantically at the door, made her escape. She fled only a short way down the hall before she was overcome, falling to her knees and vomiting onto the cold flagstones of the passage, all the while asking God to forgive her.

The curé came up behind her and touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"What did that?" she gasped, between sobs, when she could speak. "What _thing_?"

"None of God's creatures, I think," said the curé.

"And what, then," Sister Marie-Thérèse asked, as she turned, looking up at him with naked fear in her eyes, "What is he, now?"

The priest hesitated. "It might be better, perhaps, for us all if he does not live. Even better for his own soul."


	3. Prologue Part III

**(A/N – This is the third and final part of the Prologue. I had originally wanted it only to be two parts, but it just got too long. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Polly Moopers!)**

_Lozère, April 1854_

Erik plucked restlessly at the rough linen coverlet. He had been in the infirmary for two weeks, in a room by himself, tended by the sisters and occasionally seen by the doctor. It seemed an endless age to be isolated. He felt fine – better than fine. He felt strong. But the doctor had refused to let him out, and though Sister Marie-Thérèse visited him daily, he had seen none of the other sisters or children at all. It was all so odd, and he was frustrated. Really, the way they behaved, you'd think he'd died.

He put a hand up to the damaged side of his face. He could feel the puckered skin along the scars; they itched sometimes. Sister Marie-Thérèse had an ointment made with olive oil that helped a bit. But aside from a slight stiffness on that part of his face, he felt no ill effects from the attack at all. The stitches had come out days ago.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Sister Marie-Thérèse entered with that odd, sideways gait she now affected. Erik thought she did it to avoid his gaze, though he couldn't imagine why. He wished she'd stop; it made her look like a giant crab. He began to smile at the thought, then felt a bit guilty. She'd always been kind to him.

"I've brought you something." Sister Marie-Thérèse said timidly.

"I hope it's something to do," Erik said. "I shall die of boredom soon."

Sister Marie-Thérèse swallowed. "It's something to wear. Something that will help you."

"What help do I need? I'm fine; look," Erik tossed aside the bedclothes and stood, solidly. "I don't feel dizzy or weak in the slightest. I have no need of bandages or crutches. But I do need my clothes – I'm getting tired of wearing this nightshirt. Have you brought me my clothes?" He asked, sounding hopeful.

"Not yet. Why don't you see how this fits, first?" She held out an oddly-shaped piece of brown canvas.

"What is it?"

"It's a mask. I made it for you myself. See, the top part is like a little hat, and this part here comes down to cover the – the hurt part of your face, and there is a strap to hold it on. It ties in the back. I used your winter cap for sizing, but I'd like you to see if it fits." She looked almost shy.

Erik laughed. "I'm not wearing that! What kind of a fool would I look like, wearing a thing like that?"

Sister Marie-Thérèse blinked, and he realized that he had very likely hurt her feelings.

"I'm sorry, Sister, it's just – what on Earth is it _for_? I've never seen anyone wearing such a contraption. How Georges would tease! Surely the doctor doesn't still fear infection? I'm well, I tell you. And," he added slyly, "I heard him say that the risk of infection was over."

_There was certainly nothing wrong with the boy's hearing_, Sister Marie-Thérèse thought. The doctor had been out in the hall when he'd told her that, and she had thought the door was shut. It must have been left open a crack. Well, there was no getting around it. She had dreaded this.

"Erik – the mask – the thing that happened to you, well, you are different now. Yes, you are well! And we are all so happy," she said, though she did not look happy; she looked worried. "But we thought it would be better – we all thought – better for you and for others. It's so unpleasant when people stare."

Erik looked at her as if she had lost her mind. "You think people won't stare if I'm wearing _that_? Where is a mirror?" He looked around, noticing for the first time that everything reflective had vanished from the room. "Sister," he said urgently. "Will you please bring me a mirror?"

"I really don't think – "

"I want to see myself."

Sister Marie-Thérèse turned and fled from the room. She'd wished she could spare him this. It hurt her heart to see him standing there, looking so vulnerable, and yet with that face! She had faith that everything happened according to God's plan, but it was hard – so hard! – to see such an affliction visited on a small boy. And one who had been as beautiful as an angel! She wiped a tear, and composed herself. When she returned to Erik's room, she brought a small hand mirror and the Director of the orphanage with her.

"I should warn you, Erik, that your appearance has changed," M. Guillaume said.

"I want to see."

Sister Marie-Thérèse handed him the mirror with no comment.

At first, Erik thought that they were playing some sort of trick. He didn't recognize himself. He raised a hand, and the reflected figure raised one, too; otherwise he'd never have known himself.

The skin on the damaged part of his face had healed, it was true, but it was now crisscrossed and distorted by a network of raised, red, scars and welts. He looked like he'd been stitched together out of rags. The cheek on that side was sunken and hollow, the skin stretched tight between cheekbone and jaw; the underlying muscle must have withered or been damaged. He could still chew, but he looked like a death's head. His upper lip was higher on one side than on the other, giving him a permanent sneer. Part of his nose had been torn away, one side ending in a ragged strip of cartilage instead of a rounded nostril. The skin around his right eye was pulled down by the scars, making that eye appear larger than the other.

"It's a miracle your vision wasn't damaged," said the Director, noticing his scrutiny.

Erik only looked at him and went back to studying the mirror. M. Guillaume fell silent again.

Scars ran across his scalp as well, and there was a lone streak of grey in his jet-black hair. Erik turned his head from side to side. From one side, he looked the same as he always had – maybe even better. His eyes were a brighter yellow, and his skin had the glow of health. But from the other side, he was a goblin.

Erik looked up at the two adults. "Will this go away?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," the Director said.

"I'll look like this always?"

"The doctor said that the scars will shrink and fade in color over time, but they will never go away entirely."

Erik thought for a moment, his hands playing with the mirror.

"Am I ugly now?"

Sister Marie-Thérèse blushed crimson and looked at her feet. M. Guillaume coughed. The boy had a way of cutting directly to the heart of matters, and he was clearly waiting for an answer.

"Your appearance has changed," M. Guillaume repeated. "Some people will find the change startling."

"God loves all his creatures equally," Sister Marie-Thérèse put in.

That was enough. Erik held his hand out for the mask. "I'll wear it," he said. "I don't care how attractive people find me, but I do not wish to feel their eyes upon me."

The mask was given and accepted. Sister Marie-Thérèse reached for the mirror, but Erik held onto it. "I need to get used to my new face," he said.

The adults hesitated, but Erik had fallen into a sullen silence.

They left, closing the door behind them. There was an awkward pause.

"He took that rather well…considering," Sister Marie-Thérèse said after a moment.

"You can never tell with him."

Behind them, they heard the sound of the hand mirror being thrown to the floor and smashed.

* * *

He was outside at night again, but this time he wasn't going to go anywhere near the forest. It was well past midnight. Erik had waited until the orphanage was silent, then stolen up to the dormitories and made his clothes into a small bundle. With the he wrapped three apples he'd taken from the kitchen. He left his prized pennywhistle, his one musical instrument, on the table beside the sleeping Georges, who had often admired it in the past.

Now he was free. What he'd do with that freedom he'd yet to determine. He looked back at the orphanage and thought he saw a candle flickering in one of the windows. Perhaps Sister Marie-Thérèse, bidding him farewell? He had a feeling she'd understand his need to go. She'd always understood him better than anyone.

Erik raised a hand, and saw the candle flame go out. He put on the mask and began walking through the darkness on the road to Saint-Étienne.


End file.
